So, there we are. You'll find some violence, but nothing gore. And you might find something you've been expecting for a while as well. The true question being, will Tristan live or die ? (evil cackle) Please let me know how it went for you, I'm not so good at writing action scenes. So, review ?
Arthur's command came swiftly, and at once, they were rushing down the field, swords raised. Struck by the fluttering of her heart, Frances squeezed her thighs to keep in position, but she nearly got thrown out such as the crazy pace of the warhorse. Its powerful muscles rolled below her legs, the intensity of the charge unlike anything she had experienced before. She needed to concentrate if she wanted to survive this battle ! Frances snaked an arm around Tristan's breastplate; it was not ideal, but it would keep her from falling. And then the screen of dark smoke assaulted them. The smell was horrid, its heaviness penetrating nose and lungs, choking her. But the first Saxon faces appeared below the horse' hooves, and Tristan was lashing out with his left hand. His warhorse, unstoppable, trampled bodies and broke bones, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake.
— "Frances!" came his commanding voice.
The young woman regained her bearings, lifting her sword up and slashing it down once, twice. She winced as her blade connected with arms, faces, necks and chests. But such was the horrible reality of war. Killed or be killed. There was no other option. She very nearly lost her sword at it embedded itself in a chest piece, her quick reflex saving it as she twisted the handle and gave a hard pull. Phew. The first passage was done, another volley of arrow fired before they would get into the fray. Heaving, Frances gulped a few mouthfuls of clear air, hoping it would, as well, clear her mind. She didn't want to disappoint Tristan; so that he wouldn't regret his choice to lead her into battle. The knight stood proud in the saddle, flicking his blade to remove the excess blood in a practiced manner. Although he didn't turn once to her, she was grateful for his presence; an anchor in reality. Frances needed to focus on the task, and be mindful of her grip lest she lost her weapon. Her elvish training instructor always said: "Your sword is your life. Loose it, and it will be forfeit". He couldn't be more right.
At once, they started moving again. This time she was ready, avoiding to clash with weapons, timing her attacks to make more damage. The wind swept past her face as she refused the smoke to enter her lungs, breathing only in the clearest spots. The helmet was heavy on her shoulders, restraining her field of vision and preventing her from turning her head backwards. A necessary evil ! Already, a bolt had bounced on the metal. Tristan turned his horse around, passing through wheezing projectiles and tracing back the line of terrified Saxons. They started to shoot at each other, eyes wide, tracking the knights that hacked at their backs. Frances tamed her raging mind, refusing to see the results of her blows, slashing with great swings to inflict the most damage in one passage. Her thighs hurt from holding on, her arm aching from the harshness of the blows reverberating through her joints, her whole body stiff like a board. Cavalry was a demanding job, something very different than fighting on foot, and she wondered if she'd made the right choice. Before her, Tristan seemed to mold in the saddle, his blows efficient, graceful, much less forced than hers. Once more, Frances wept for the loss of her elvish blade. The dao she'd acquired was but a poor replacement, one she never got used to. It didn't sing in her hand, didn't enhance her blows nor increased her speed like the sword Glorfindel had forged for her. But it was better than nothing.
At last, the first wave of infantry has been wiped out entirely, and the knights retreated once more. Frances breathed in relief when all of them were accounted for, and Dagonet send her a respectful nod. The rest of the Saxons marched on, passing the gate with a battle cry that died on their lips. The only spectacle that greeted them was the bodies of their men; not an enemy in sight. They paused, the blond burly leader organizing their ranks in a left and right flank before a harsh order was issued anew, and the march started again. The drums enhanced the sound of their chanting as they shocked their shields, the very ground shaking below them. Even after facing ten thousand Uruks, Frances found them a fearsome sight. Her eyes roamed their ranks, wondering how they could possibly survive facing such a force in the open. Merlin appeared, on top of the hill, dragging three trebuchets that shouldn't have existed at this time in this place, shaking Frances out of her dreadful frame of mind.
— "That's cheating", she mumbled.
— "What do you mean ?", came Tristan's levelled voice.
— "Those weapons are not supposed to exist… yet. Anachronic"
Anyhow, she wasn't one to complain. If Merlin had guessed properly, and the Saxons had been led by an enemy of higher power, they would need all the help they could get.
— "So are you, little fairy"
Tristan's statement startled her. Damn, he was right !
— "I know"
The knight's hand came to rest on her knee, squeezing a little before he unbuckled his bow from the saddle. His impressive blade reintegrated the sheath as he stated:
— "Be ready. We charge"
And then, chaos was unleashed as Merlin's trebuchets started a bombing the US army would have been proud of. On the other side, Guinevere's fire arrows had ignited a trench of tar and oil to divide the rest of the Saxons. More smoke rose, its acrid smell assaulting her lungs. A war cry, echoed by many others told her that the real battle had begun. A few moments later, Arthur lifted Excalibur in the air, and charged forward. His knights followed at once, arms brandished, ready to shed Saxon blood. Frances' legs held tight as Tristan's impressive warhorse charged. Clinging to him was out of the question, for he needed freedom of movement to shoot properly. Twisting to the left to give him more leeway, she grasped the saddle tightly, knuckles white. For a moment, the young woman wondered how the knight managed to aim as they charged at full speed. Nonetheless, his arrows all landed true. The first passage was a flurry of hooves, the warhorse's momentum wreaking havoc on the battlefield, hitting Saxons, and a few unlucky Picts. Frances's blows were few as she only had a moment between Tristan's arrows to use her right hand; she wasn't proficient enough to attempt fighting with her left. At last, they exited the battlefield and the knight discarded his bow, fixing it with a knot to his mount.
Spurring his mare to a gallop, Tristan unsheathed his sword as they plunged back into chaos. Frances to the right, Tristan to the left; like an old couple they worked. For a moment, they had a clear advantage with the horse' speed. The young woman hacked, and sliced without distinction, her blows not so precise, but efficient enough to send a few Saxons sprawling on the floor. The energy of the charge did the rest. Pain shot through her right leg, her calf sliced at they lost speed. Frances kicked out, the reflex saving her from a gruesome wound as it broke a nose. And then the unthinkable happened. Their mount sidestepped a man, unbalancing Frances whose left hand shot up around Tristan's breastplate tightly. A neigh of pain was all the warning they got before his mare reared up. Frances flew at once, thrown to the ground with such force that she nearly impaled herself on her sword. A cry escaped her lips, pain shooting through her right side, arms and ribs bruised by the heavy fall. Dark spots danced before her eyes, and she rolled on her knees, trying very hard not to black out.
At once, Tristan leapt from his horse; his mount's underbelly was pierced by a spear. Those rascals had first attacked her calves, and taken advantage of her rearing. Heartless cowards ! His heart bled for her, she'd been a constant companion, and faithful to the bone. But his priorities laid elsewhere, for Frances was exposed. Bent over her, her eyes veiled by the pain, she couldn't see the axe coming at her. Tristan did. A mighty leap was all it took to cut the attacker in two neat pieces. The next one fell before he approached within three feet of his fallen lady. He'd be damned if he let anything happen to her ! En guarde once more, Tristan danced a deadly ballet around Frances, until she seemed to regain her bearing. Then, he pulled her to her feet harshly, his hand lingering a tad too long on her shoulder.
— "Fight, Frances", he told her, his face an inch from her.
Her hazel eyes responded to his intense gaze as she swayed. Tristan turned around just in time to slice a throat. The Saxon's blade had nicked his arm, and the knight watched him coldly as he choked on his own blood, reaching for Frances to keep her standing. Let it be known that no one attacked his lady ! At last, she seemed ready to fight. Sword held in a protective stance, her posture assured, although favoring her left side slightly. At once, a deadly dance started, she defending her side, he cutting through the Saxons as he led them on the battlefield. He analysed, and decided where to go; she followed. Not once their blades clashed against one another, their movements synchronized, each guessing what the other's move would be. It was a mighty fight, a flurry of slashes on a gruesome battlefield. Frances' reluctance was gone, leaving it its wake an efficient fencer. Light on her feet, swift with her blade, she was every inch his counterpart, albeit her strength and precisions were no match for his. But she compensated it by deviating blows rather than meeting them firsthand; the fighting style adapted to her sword and lack of strength.
After taking a harsh kick to the ribs, she picked up a shield to guard her body, attacking, with feet, and hands, elbows and knees whenever her assailants came too close. Once or twice, her quick reflex disabled some of his own opponents. A mighty blow to the neck with her shield sent one sprawling at his feet, ready to be sliced by his blade. Another one fell due to a knee connecting with his private parts. Almost amused, Tristan ended his life without pause. His little fairy was fierce in battle, using every part of her body as a weapon. He'd never thought he would be able to fight with another, especially a stranger, and make it so seamless. It was almost surreal, how they protected each other's back, how invincible they seemed to be together. Frances glanced at him as many times as he looked out for her, checking for injuries, assessing his next steps. She knew where he was, as he knew her exact position.
There were fewer enemies left standing, the area cleaning up a little. Picts and Saxons alike littered the ground as they moved through the battlefield, coming closer to the wall of fire. Tristan chanced a glance at Frances; he chest heaved, but there were no serious injuries. She addressed him a firm look, one that said 'glad you're alive, lead the way'. She didn't seem too angry about the stolen kiss, and he couldn't will himself to regret it. His resolve had faltered after hearing what Lancelot had dared ! Now, he knew how heavenly her lips tasted like. He needed to keep her alive, to taste her once more. As he considered their next move, Tristan spotted HIM. Cold sweat trickled down his spine. The Saxon leader, unharmed, had not even drawn his sword yet. And his eyes, cold, and calculating, were set on Frances. Cold rage hit him, his jaw clenching as he slashed at an enemy without even looking at him. He willed, with all his might, that the Saxon leader would turn his attention to him, and leave the little fairy out of this. He was too powerful for her to take; a monster. One last slash, and a solider fell at Frances's feet, leaving an opening. Tristan grasped her forearm tightly, sending her a commanding look.
— "Flee, go !"
— "Over my dead body", she cried.
The knight cursed, and, without a second though, pushed her away from him. Ignoring the hurt in her eyes – sending pang though his heart – he traced a line between him, and the Saxon leader, making sure there were plenty of opponents in his path. Frances wouldn't be able to follow as he pushed them behind him, slightly incapacitated for her to slaughter. The young woman yelled her disagreement at his fast and steady progress.
— "Tristan you… ‼! Damn it ! Damn you knight ! I swear I'll kill you myself… !
Most of her outraged cries got lost in the vacarm of the battle, but not enough for him to tune her out. His heart clenched, leaving his little fairy behind… The Saxon, though, eyed him with amusement. The man was nowhere as stupid as he hoped. Then, he unsheathed a huge sword, and twirled it around expertly. Tristan allowed a wave of calm to wash over him, replacing the weariness of his muscles by awareness, using the aches of his bruises to fuel his anger. A quick glance to his right told him Frances held her ground, tracing her own path in another direction. Good.
— "Once I'm through with you, I'll get to her", the large Saxon leader taunted in a nonchalant voice.
— "Yeah, yeah", he drawled.
His nonchalant rebuke miffed the Saxon who stood taller, and pointed his sword to him. Tristan smiked; his charming personality seemed to have nailed the man's pride just right. When the fight started, he was in the best condition – given his exhaustion – to hack the bastard into tiny pieces. How wrong he'd been ! One little sparring later, he had to step back, panting heavily. The man was so strong, and proficient with his blade. He even had the gall to stand leisurely, waiting for him to come once more, as if he had no care in the world. His long strands didn't move in the breeze, as if they were as heavy at its master. But Tristan would have none of it. The man was too fresh, and Arthur might very well be outmatched if facing him after such a tedious battle. He owed it to him to tire him out. He owed it to Frances that he didn't approach within a hundred feet. He attacked once more, blades clashing, his dao never connecting as his blade was swept aside. Then a piercing ache crippled him, and he stumbled back in disbelief. His right underarm was bleeding profusely, the blond leader smirking at him, a few hairs out of place.
How was he going to get out of this mess?
Two hundred yards away, Frances was fighting for her life. Tired to the bone, her slashes had lost punch, her adrenalin running out. The only thing that kept her running was her determination, and the sense of urgency as she tried to carve her way back to Tristan. The stupid, stupid knight ! He's thrown so many in her way, trying to take the Saxon leader on his own, that she'd be swept aside. How she feared that her dream might come true, that he would die in battle and be forever forgotten! Anger fueled her attacks, anger at his stupidity. Why ? Why had he taken that leader on his own, instead of trusting her ? Was he seeking a glorious death on the battlefield ? Out of the corner of her eye, she could distinguish the two mighty warriors fighting for their lives. And for once, Tristan wasn't as graceful as he used to be. He fought two handed, and she wondered if his sword arm was hurt. An axe nearly shopped her head off, and Frances ducked out of reflex. Her foot connected with a knee, and the Saxon fell forward. She finished him off, but not before his dagger sliced her armor in the ribs.
— "Ow !", came her pained cry before she embedded her sword into his chest.
Damn, the slash was deep, and bleeding profusely. But not life threatening, or so she thought. Her eyes roamed the battlefield once more, landing on Lancelot as he sent a ridiculously bearded blond to the ground. The knight seemed to manage quite well on his own, and she turned once more to Tristan which posture had sagged alarmingly. The road was clear, at last ! Her heart hammered in her chest, her breath short, sweat trickling down her brow. Just as she was about to run back to Tristan, Merlin's voice echoed in her head once more. 'Be mindful of your choices'. Willing the annoying warning to go away, Frances paused to breath heavily. Damn, this slice stung like hell ! Checking one last time Lancelot's posture, dread descended on her spine as she spotted the crossbow in the Saxon's hands. This time, it was Tristan's voice she remembered. 'If you face a choice, don't save me'. Frances cried in agony, her steps faltering, heart cleaved in two.
— "No, no, no !", came her heartfelt yell to the sky.
The Saxon aimed, and she took flight, running like a madwoman, her sword raised before her. A man tried to stop her, he fell dead in the blink of an eye.
— "Lance !", she yelled.
The knight turned but didn't move from his spot. She would be too late ! too late. Frances launched herself forward just as the bolt darted off the crossbow. A crushing pain ripped through her shoulder as she collapsed in Lancelot's arms. Frances wailed in agony, blacking out, unable to witness the blind fury on the knight's face as he finished the Saxon's son with a mighty slash of his blade. Then his hands were calling her back, his voice worried.
— "Frances ! Frances ! Damn it, lady knight !"
Lancelot was frantic. Frances opened her eyes, the pain crippling, shaking from the agony. She wanted to talk, but her vocal chords refused to respond.
— "Don't speak, it's all right. I'll take care of you"
She wanted to scream, she wanted to yell at the top of her lungs that no, it wasn't all right. But her teeth shattered from the shock. At last, she gave a mighty push to roll on her side, yelling at the pain that ripped through her like a trail of fire.
— "Tristan !", she stuttered, her right arm pointing to the last place she'd seen him. "Tristan !"
Realization dawned in his dark eyes, and Lancelot darted off. Slowly, Frances managed to crawl on all fours, mindful to not put pressure on her arm. Black spots danced before her very eyes, and she spat on the ground. 'Come on', she screamed at herself. 'Come on !'. But try as she might, her body refused to stand. Hands snaked around her waist, pressing the slash of her ribs uncomfortably. Just as she was about to trash, Frances recognized Guinevere. Help had come in the least expected way ! Her face was painted blue and crimson, her body bruised and slashed.
— "Come", she said, leading her to where Lancelot and Arthur were now battling the Saxon leader. "Let's witness this son of a bitch's death"
Guinevere led her steadily, her slender frame curiously sturdy as she took most of Frances's weight. One step after the other, the Keeper of Time struggled against the dizziness. She needed to find him. Find him, find him. The mantra kept her going, until at last, the two women were facing the intense battle that raged on between the Saxon leader, Arthur and Lancelot. A few stray Saxons were coming their way, and Guinevere had to let Frances go to keep them at bay. Lancelot joined her, clearing the place little by little, face exhausted, wrath unleashed. Behind them, Arthur was livid, fighting like there would be no tomorrow. But Frances didn't linger, falling to the ground the instant Guinevere released her. Her shoulder was a bloody mess, the clavicle shattered. The pain was so intense, radiating all around her chest and back, as if she'd been pounced by a hammer. Frances didn't care much for the consequences; it would be repaired on her trip back home by the molecular restructuration. If she didn't die of blood loss anyway… this was getting a habit. Concentrate, concentrate ! Getting a hold on herself, she spotted Tristan's silhouette, resting on his side, blood oozing from so many punctures that she almost cried.
Slowly, Frances mustered the little strength she had left to crawl over him. Fingers digging in the blood-soaked earth, she progressed slowly, her teeth gritted to keep the pain at bay. For a moment, her vision clouded, a black veil threatening to take her. Not now, not now ! Her shoulder was insanely painful, yet her will was stronger. Frances crawled like a dog, again and again to Tristan. He was there, lying on his side, a crimson river flowing out of his body. Just a few feet more. When at last, she was close enough to touch him, she laid her good hand on his shoulder. Tristan rolled on his back helplessly, eyes closed. Frances gasped, crawling closer still, leaning upon his armor. His right forearm was pierced by a huge dagger, the blade through his whole muscle, weapon still in place.
— "Tristan !", she called, her voice frantic. "Tristan !"
Her plea was desperate, tears gathering in her eyes. And he heard her. Taking a shaky breath, Tristan bestowed upon her his mighty gaze. A piercing cry echoed in the air, Lady Hawk circling her master with mournful chirps.
— "Isolde", he whispered reverently.
Isolde ? Lady Hawk's name ? Frances took a sharp intake of breath, understanding dawning upon her. This was were the myth of Tristan and Iseult ? His eyes glazed over, and he closed them once more.
— "Don't you dare !" Frances wailed. "Don't you dare leave me like this !"
But his lifeforce was bleeding out of him through his many wounds, crimson droplets smeared all over his beautiful face. Beside him, Frances closed her eyes as well, tears trailing down her cheeks. There was only one way out of this. Taking a deep breath that sent a jolt of pain through her shoulder, she tried to communicate with sky and earth to gather her own lifeforce. And then, resting her palm upon his heart, shaking like a leaf under the strain, she started to transfer her energy to him. The tingles down her fingers told her that it worked, that she had reached her meditation state efficiently enough to give him as much as she could. What strength desperation could muster ! Yet, she didn't have much left, and needed to convey as much as possible if she wanted to save him. Her whole body trembled now, propped in an awkward position, her muscles protesting from the strain, her mind fuzzy. When at last weakness overwhelmed her, she sagged against him with a sob.
A hand caressed her cheek, picking up a tear, rough fingers warm upon her cold skin. His voice was a smooth as ever as his last sentence passed through his lips.
— "Don't cry little fairy, I will watch…"
A cough wracked his body, blood spluttering over. A punctured lung. A death sentence.
— "Will watch over you… from up there"
His eyes locked on hers, intense, their depth unreadable, two mesmerizing orbs that kept her under his spell until the very last moment. Then his chest stopped moving under her hand, and his gaze lost the fierceness of his presence. Frances let out a wail of agony. Tristan's body was but a soulless vessel under her palms, his heart forever silent. Warm, strong hand tried to gather her, but she wouldn't let go of the scout's armor. Her fingers were clutched tightly, knuckles white, claws buried on leather and metal. Beside Tristan's body, Arthur crashed to the ground, crying to the sky in anguish. Galahad, Gawain and Bors were still standing, albeit uneasily, taking in the sorry sight of their scout and his fiery lady whose body slumped suddenly. The pain had eventually won the war.
Please don't kill me ? I honestly cried writing this, but it needed to be done. Tristan always knew he'd die in battle, and he has done a mighty job at protecting the Keeper of Time. Although I wonder if the two of them couldn't have taken Cerdic. I'm sure they might have prevailed, given their combined skill. But hey, can't fault a fifth century man from protecting his woman. I'll go and cry my eyes out now. Sniffle. It's horrible to kill a character I love so much, Tristan is… was such a great man.
All right, so Mairi asked for an alternate ending where Tristan doesn't die. It is now available in story 'Forevers yours', chapter 5, Alive – First part. It is a version where Legolas had never existed. Cheers.